


I’ll Love The Littler Things

by bouncingclowns



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Asylum
Genre: Angst, F/F, Heavy Angst, I'm Bad At Tagging, basically if you like angst this is for you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:55:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26956180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bouncingclowns/pseuds/bouncingclowns
Summary: Lana goes home for the first time since being at Briarcliff.Based on an anonymous prompt on tumbler asking for a story about Lana reminiscing on Wendy. Heavily inspired by the song A Burning Hill by Mitski
Relationships: Wendy Peyser/Lana Winters
Comments: 5
Kudos: 9





	I’ll Love The Littler Things

The stairway stands before Lana like a goddamned funeral procession. Dead leaves are strewn across the front porch, and where they do not cover the once whitewashed deck, she can see month’s worth of dirt and grime greying the surface. _Wendy hates that._ Lana sucks her lower lip between her teeth, chewing on the bits of dried skin she finds until she’s breathing somewhat evenly again.

She’s not able to speak about her in the past tense - not yet. She’s been free of Briarcliff for less than a full day. She’s talked to police officers, doctors, and more nuns than she’d ever cared to encounter. She’s told her story, told Wendy’s story. Still, she can’t speak it into existence for herself, because if she can just preserve that for herself, then the body on Thredson’s floor that she’d wept over and been forced to degrade remains anonymous. If she can talk about it like she’s still here, then maybe when she opens the front door, she’ll be met with the scent of pot trickling through the living room, with The Everly Brothets brother blasting over the record player, and Wendy’s smile that makes her black eyes crinkle.

She isn’t, of course. Stretched before her is the familiarity of a space she no longer recognizes. A chair at the dining table has been knocked over, dried blood and glass litter the hardwood floor, and a curtain has been ripped beyond repair. _She fought hard._ Lana blinks at a black box on the dining table. She approaches it with bated breath and slow steps until she’s within arm’s reach. Her fingers trace a line in the dust she finds settled atop it, and she clicks the latch.

Inside is a matchbox, some paper, and a distinct plastic bag of green. The weed’s scent is dull with time, and dry to the touch. It crumbles between her fingers, and with it goes Lana’s resolve. Tears push to the forefront of her vision, blearing her sight and mixing with the fine sheen of sweat permeating her cheeks and lower lip. She sucks in a breath and let’s it go too quickly, and then again, and again, until she can’t stop herself from seeing every moment that they had spent in this house; every Christmas they’d spent, every shower they’d shared, every dance they’d danced.

“God, Wendy. Ih-I’m sorry.” She wails, collapsing into a chair. The weed is held tight in her white knuckled grasp, and she clutches it to her chest, buckling at the middle so her forehead is practically touching her knees. Lana doesn’t know how long she cries for, only that it’s dark when she is able to break away from the rememberances.

Wind whips through the shattered glass of a window, and Lana shivers, the hair on her arms prickling. She pockets the baggie deep into her coat. She doesn’t move, not right away. Her time at Briarcliff has made her frail from malnutrition and sheer trauma, and she’s learned the hard way that standing too quickly usually sends her toppling over again. When she finally does stand, she’s not sure what for. She can’t bring herself to go to the living room for fear of seeing a photograph of them, can’t even fathom entering their bedroom for obvious reasons. Her fingers tap the cool metal of Wendy’s box, and she pulls it towards herself. It’s left a square spot of clean varnish on the table where it was protected from debris.

Something slams shut as another gust of wind bothers the broken window. Lana yelps, eyes screwing shut as her mind twists reality with the icebox in the basement that was once her prison. She drops Wendy’s box with a clamor, backing against a wall and letting her fingers scrape the wallpaper. Lana finds a light switch before she can allow the darkness permeating the space to play any further tricks on her mind. Warm light pools through the kitchen, accenting the dish left uncleaned in the sink, and the half empty bottle of wine on the counter.

 _This is all wrong._ She shakes her head. _All fucking wrong._ She shouldn’t be here, not without Wendy. It feels like she’s trespassing on abandoned property; Lana supposes she is to some extent. The place had sat vacant for so long, a sort of limbo between the love and destruction that had taken place here. She wonders what she had been doing when Bloody Face found her. If she had died here, or if he’d waited until he had her in the basement. If he’d touched her here, if he’d -

“No.” She commands, electricity buzzing in her ears. She will not think of this, not here, not now. Not until she can bury Wendy, and give her the dignity she deserves. Thredson had taken enough from her, he would not take up any more space in her mind.

Exhaustion rattles through Lana’s system. She realizes she hasn’t eaten all day, but she can’t bring herself to open the fridge (she doubts there’s anything edible after so many months, anyway).

Everything reminds her of Wendy, but nothing makes her feel close to her. With the understanding that she is stuck living with the pain crackling through her chest, she makes her way up the stairs to the bedroom they once shared. There’s a set of pajamas draped on Wendy’s side of the bed. Lana perches next to them, fingers hovering just above the clover green material. She lies on her side, and her palm rests against the silk. The bed doesn’t smell like her anymore. Lana feels a damp spot forming on the comfertor beneath her.

When she wakes up, she’s still clutching Wendy’s pajamas like it’s a child’s security blanket. Lana rubs the last of the sleep from her eyes and cringes when her back protests as she sits up. Her head throbs, her muscles ache, Lana hasn’t looked in a mirror for months; she’s not sure exactly how long. She had caught glimpses of herself in the treys at Briarcliff’s bakery, or the various metal surfaces in Therdson’s factory of death, but nothing more. Her curiosity gets the best of her, and she pushes off the bed towards the bathroom.

The mirror presents her with a person she does not recognize. The rose of her cheeks is gone, replaced by gaunt cheekbones and a protruding jawline. Bruises and cuts litter her face and neck - some new, some fading. Her eyes are dull, her hair is brittle, her lips are chapped. Something catches the corner of her vision in the mirror, a flash of jet black hair.

“Wendy.” She breaths, spinning fast enough to create specks of black in her vision. Lana blinks hard, bracing herself against the bathroom sink. As her eyes refocus, she realizes the folly of her error. “You better get used to this.” _I won’t. I can’t._

It’s just barely dawn. The sun rises against the brisk fall weather in hues of orange and yellow. Clouds streak the sky, and it reminds her of fire and smoke.

They used to lie out in the grass naming the shapes of clouds. Lana had always found it juvenile, but Wendy loved it. She would lie with her legs crossed, squeezing her hand and pointing whenever she saw something in one of them. Lana remembered spending more time looking at Wendy than the sky. There, hidden by the shrubbery on the perimeter of their property, they were secluded from the rest of the world. She could kiss Wendy in the grass, trace her cheek, and rest her head atop her chest.

Lana doesn’t know she’s outside until the last of the memory fades behind her eyes. She sits down, fingers tracing the dead grass. The dry earth tickles the back of her neck and head when she lies down. She watched the clouds and tries to name a few, ignoring the tears streaking freely down her cheeks in rivulettes.

She hears Wendy’s voice in the wind, feels her presence in the grass next to her, and she aches.


End file.
